Weird Kid with the Stories
by TheWildHeffernan
Summary: The story of how the one of our weirdest singing dancing newsboys came to the lodging house, and what happened after he did. My first story, any reviews much appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

Once upon a time there was a boy who thought that every story should start with the words "once upon a time." He liked stories that started that way, because it usually meant a place he had never been, and could never hope to go, filled with people he could never hope to meet. Those were the best kind of stories to hear. These stories came from only a few different places-the library, which was out of the way and always felt disapproving of street rats like him, but if he was quiet and wiped his feet before entering, he could find that gold-encrusted book of fairy tales in the corner, and struggle through a couple stories before the evening edition.

They also came from Medda. She had interesting, exotic tales of vaudeville acts, shows, and characters, all "completely true, my dear, would I lie to you?" She welcomed him between shows and engagements, would talk to him where most adults would give him a disdainful look and simply walk away. However, she was busy, and not always… nice. The boy wouldn't want to say anything serious to her. She was for comic relief, and if he really, REALLY needed a meal (or some candy).

For a long time, these were his only source of stories. Of course, he had his friends. They told him about their days, about the people they met, about anything and everything they happened to encounter. However, they didn't have real fairytales. His friends wanted them as much as he did.

One day, when the boy was ten or so, he was walking down the street on his way back to the lodging house, when he heard someone singing. There weren't many people in the city who did random song and dance numbers, aside from the newsies and everyone they met. He was curious. He was fairly certain he and his friends hadn't infected anybody that day. He took a deep breath and walked quietly towards the alley, trying to make sure that he could run without whomever it was learning in the first place. It was a boy-younger than him by a few years, and sitting against the farthest back wall of the alleyway. He was sitting cross-legged and staring up at the sky. He sang quietly and hopefully, a strange little ditty.

_Whatever the world says_

_Whatever they say_

_You can always find a way_

_Through anything everything throws at you_

_If you try, I bet that it'll be okay._

_I wish for a pretzel, I wish for a pie, I wish for some bread-rye_

_I wish for a place to sit that doesn't smell like crap and tears and lies_

_I wish for a pair of shoes, a haircut, and some thread_

_I wish I could spend the night in a warm, soft bed_

The boy paused, sniffed, and coughed a little.

_I'll smile though, and that's the way I hope to go._

_Smiling and, most likely, small_

_As small as I am now, and maybe tonight_

_I'll leave behind the city streets and lights_

_Ain't that nice…_

The boy trailed off, and leaned back against the brick. Jack could see just enough in the starlight to tell him the little boy really was smiling. His face was wet with tears or sweat, but he was smiling. Jack turned and ran, feeling sick. No kid should be all right with that. Nobody should have to admit defeat like that, especially kids that young. Jack made a quick decision, and began to run faster.

Snoddy, Klopmann, Wool, and Jack came back within the hour. Wool was one of the oldest kids, ready to help anyone. Klopmann came because he had been a war doctor and might know something they could do. Snoddy was strong in limb and in stomach, and Jack knew where to go.

Jack led them into the alleyway where he had seen the boy. It was silent and dark. Klopmann held the lantern high, accomplishing nothing aside from elongating the shadows of the garbage heaps and broken wagon wheels that littered the walls and dusty street.

Snoddy found the boy at the back, and called out

"I think he's asleep…"

Jack knew what that could mean. He trotted over with the others, and looked closely at him in the lantern light as Klopmann bent over him. The young boy was pale and slightly freckled, with hollow cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. His hair was to matted to tell the color of in this light… and it didn't take Jack more then a moment to realize that it wasn't with dirt. His clothes hung off him, and he wasn't waking up as Klopmann rolled him over. The older man gasped. The back of the boy's leg had a huge gash running from his upper thigh to his ankle. It was bent at a slightly unnatural angle, and Wool moaned looking at it. Klopmann patted him on the back, and asked for bandages. He wrapped the boy's thin leg tightly, and then lifted him gently over his shoulder. The whole group proceeded slowly back to the lodging house.

Most of the boys tried to come over and see what Klopmann was carrying in, but Wool and Jack both prevented the others from crowding the boy. The free bed in the corner was cleared of the shoes and various articles of clothing that the other boys had been using it to hold, and the new boy was lowered into it. Klopmann cut away the bandages, and preceded to clean up the wound as best he could. He also cleaned the boy's face, brushing his hair over the bandages concealing the cut across his forehead. Jack and Wool stood behind the old man as he worked.

"Kloppy? Why are ya cleanin' his face?"

"Boys, one thing I learned in the army: people would rather die looking decent."

The next morning, the boy still hadn't woken, but he was breathing deeper than the night before, and his face had a little color. Jack kept thinking about him as he sold that day. He wanted to know what happened with this boy. He talked about it with Racetrack as they walked

"What do you think happened, Race?"

The shorter boy put his cigar in his mouth and tried to look threatening.

"His old man got annoyed wit' him or his ma, an' he was holding a knife. It happens all the time. When I were real small-"

Jack laughed.

"Shut your trap, Jacky. When I were real _young_, there was dis drunk that lived in the tenement above ours. He came home later than usual one night and his missus had fed his dinner to the kids. Got tired of waitin' for him. He killed the kids. All four of 'em. He regretted it later, of course, but his wife hung herself in grief. He did too, a coupla weeks later."

"That's nice, Race. Real nice story," Jack said sarcastically as a women behind them gasped, affronted.

" Hey, you asked."

Skittery was walking behind them, and he sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes.

"Ya nitwits. He did it on purpose. Didn't Jack say he were being all creepy and singin' about death?"

"He was singin' about how much he wanted a pretzel, Skitts. You're always assuming the worst."

Skittery growled.

Racetrack snorted, then pointed at Jack with his cigar

" What do you think, Jack?"

"I think you'd have to ask him. How should I know?"

"You might never get the chance," suggested Skittery darkly, turning the corner and leaving the two others alone.

"Old glum an' dumb."

Race too walked off, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts.

Jack finished selling pretty early, and made his way as fast as he could back to the lodging house. When he got there, Klopmann wasn't at the desk. Jack stood in the doorway for a minute, and then walked upstairs. Nobody was there, as far as he could see. He took a step further in, and heard a crash. He ran to the back of the bunkroom, and was slightly surprised to see the boy splayed on the floor. As he watched, he boy rolled over onto his back and sat up, looking worried, then mortified as he saw Jack. He tried to hop up, but only succeeded falling over again.

Jack offered his hand. The boy considered, then took it. Jack pulled him up and pushed him into a sitting position on the bed. Jack stood there awkwardly.

"So, um… can ya talk?"

The boy smiled a gap-toothed smile.

"Yup. I can talk with the best of 'em!"

"Okay, kid. What's your name?"

The smile faded.

"Ummm… Ian Morris. I think."

"You think?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure."

"What happened to you?"

The boy looked worried, and shook his head.

"Don't remember."

"You don't have to talk about it right now, but you should tell Klopmann."

Ian looked like he might cry.

"I really don't remember!" Ian tried to stand up again, and Jack pulled his arm over his shoulder, taking half his weight.

"Where to?" Ian bit his lip, looking embarrassed.

"Do you have any… food?"

Jack thought. He helped Ian over to Blink's bed, and looked under the pillowcase where he knew he always kept a roll.

"Here,"

Ian looked like he was going to question it for a second, but the sight of food proved to powerful. He grabbed it devoured it like it was going to run away from him the first chance it got. Jack resolved to get Blink a new one tomorrow.

"So, Ian…"

Ian looked at Jack, crumbs all over his face.

"You're in a newsboys lodging house. Klopmann, the guy who runs it, he's real nice, and he won't kick you out, not for a long time, but rest of us pay six cents a night. We all sell papers for a livin'. It ain't easy, but I think you could do just fine."

Ian wiped his face and nodded.

"Yeah. I wanna pay for my own bed an' everythin'."

They sat on the bed for a minute.

"How old are ya, kid. You know?"

"Nearin' eight."

"Anyone asks, you're still seven. Younger sells more."

Ian nodded eagerly.

"Cool it kid. You ain't leaving the lodging house for a bit yet."

"But I'm fine!"

Jack shrugged Ian's arm of him and nudged him behind the knee, watching as the younger boy yelped and fell forward.

"You ain't. Now, I'll get the tub an' you can clean yourself up."


	2. Chapter 2

Klopmann had managed to provide some old knickers and a vest for Ian, who wore them proudly over his ragged shirt. He hadn't had shoes when they found him, but it was only August, and he might be able to save enough money for second-hand boots by the time it got really cold, Jack decided. If not, he bet the nuns would give him some if he looked really pitiful. Ian was sitting on the edge of his new bunk, looking up and down the room and tapping out an anxious rhythm on his knees. He hadn't sat still since he'd woken, but Klopmann always said that there were some kids who just couldn't sit. Made 'em all antsy. Anyway, Wool was now standing next to him, raising his hands for silence.

"Everybody, this is Ian Morris. He'll be staying here, and 'e's to be treated like anyone else of our group. You understand?" Wool had a strong cockney accent that always made him seem like he knew what he was talking about. The room filled with 'yes's' (and 'no's).

"Alright, lovely. So, anybody have any names, right off the bat?" People stood up, but before they could say anything, Ian interrupted.

"Uh, Wool, sir, what're we thinkin' a names for?" Wool smiled and ruffled the boy's already messy hair.

"For you, mate. Ian ain't really a name for a newsie, now is it? We all got nicknames. Didja think his parents named him Snoddy?" Snoddy scowled. "When's the last time you met a street arab with a proper name?" Ian was about to reply he'd never met an Arab, street or otherwise, but people had already begun to suggest titles. A red-haired boy was the first to speak.

"Alleys!"

"Nah. Sounds like a cat."

"Sproteon!"

"Dutchy, do I even want to know what that means?" A bespectacled little blond boy shrugged, looking confused.

"Do you?"

"Never mind, mate. What were you goin' to say, Don?"

A dim looking boy with a blue bandana looked down at Ian. "Gimp?" he chuckled stupidly. Ian laughed a little, uncertain whether this should be funny to him or not.

Jack stood up and stamped.

"That's an insult, ya jerk! What's ya problem?" Wool stood between them, holding out his hands.

Ian looked terrified to have so much attention on him at once, but looked at Don steadily.

"Sorry about that," he said, apologizing for Jack as though he were a misbehaving dog. "He gets mad kinda easy. You shouldn't call people names, though. Not bad ones, anyway."

Wool looked down at Don angrily.

"Why don't you take a breath o' air? I'll cool your damn 'ot head." Don left, snorting in annoyance.

"Any other suggestions?"

"Yeah," piped up a diminutive Italian boy. "How 'bout Freckles or somethin'?"

Dutchy looked affronted.

Ian turned to Jack.

"What do Gimp mean?"

"It mean a stupid crippled person who can't do nothing for themselves. It ain't really _that_ bad, it's just mean 'a Don ta say when it ain't even true."

"But isn't it?"

"Nah, ya nitwit. You're just hurt, bad."

"Well, if I ain't crippled, ain't I the other stuff?"

"Eh, you're just new. You'll learn soon."

'I'm glad ya think so, Jack!" Ian paused. "Why don't you have a nickname?"

Little Frances Sullivan almost hesitated.

"Cause I don't need one. Jack Kelly's a perfectly respectable newsie name, an' don't you forget it."

"Okay. Jack? Let's go to bed."

The names were getting wilder by the second, and two boys were rolling on the floor and shouting curses at one another.

"Yeah."

Jack helped Ian over to his bed, and then climbed up into his own. He fell asleep listening to a steady stream of what he assumed were Dutch curses, and Klopmann shouting the rest of the boys into bed.

It had been two weeks since Ian had joined the crew, and his presence had gone from new to adjusted, and was beginning the process of becoming normal. Klopmann, in his endless maternalness, had kept the poor boy cooped up in the lodging house all this time, and while he meant the best, Jack had been right when he noted that Ian was one of 'them antsy ones.' He kept thinking about his little buddy as he sold, bouncing off the walls in the cluttered bunkroom while every other kid went of to work. Jack really wanted to have him out selling with he and Race- it would be fun, and he wasn't that much younger then them. Besides, they would make a fortune, with that kids level of pathetic cheer.

On this day in particular, Jack finished with the morning edition in time to go back to Duane Street, and decided to go visit Ian, trapped inside on a day like this. He splurged on some chestnuts from a stand, and went upstairs prepared to be bowled over. Ian hopped over on his left leg, holding the right up with his hand. It was efficient, if extremely unbalanced. He beamed when he saw Jack, and promptly toppled onto his face. He rolled over a few feet, before springing up onto the bed next to him.

"Getting pretty nimble there," Jack commented.

"Are those chestnuts?"

"Yup."

"Can I have one, please?"

Jack rolled his eyes.

"That ain't how ya ask for stuff, nitwit."

Ian screwed up his face, and tried again.

_"May _I have one, please?"

Jack heaved a sigh.

"Ya don't get it! You're to damn polite all the time! Nobody's gonna listen ta you if you ask everythin' all nice-like. You have ta have some force behind the stuff ya say. Like, if I were goin' ta ask you for one, I'd go-" Jack glared at the younger boy- "Gimme one 'a them damn nuts!"

Ian looked nonplussed.

"No ya wouldn't. You're nice when ya talk ta me-nicer an' that, anyways. And, also, does swearin' about it really give it force?"

"A 'course swearin' gives it more force. An' when I said 'you', I meant it like anyone other an' you or me."

"I don't get it."

"Course not, stupid. Here, have a chestnut.

They ate in silence for a while, when something occurred to Jack.

"What do you do in here all day, anyhow? Hop around and talk ta yourself?"

"Well, yeah, I do. But I do other stuff too!"

"Yeah? Like what?"

Ian listed his day's activities on his fingers, squinting as he tried to remember.

"This mornin', I took all the sheets and stuff off my bed. Then put 'em back on. Then I took a bath. Then Klopmann came up an' asked if I was okay, and I said yes, thank you, sir, then I hopped around in a circle as fast as I could while not fallin'-"

"Kid, you're crazy."

"Don't go interuptin'! So, then I practiced this dance I made up that kinda looks like a dyin' chicken, then I looked out the window for a while and waved at everyone who went by, then I hopped around some more an' made up a bunch of stories, and then I scraped the mold of the windowsill and threw it at someone passing by, then I told him I were sorry, then I finished my story, then you came in and started teaching me how ta ask for a chestnut with force." Ian took a deep breath and was about to start talking again when Jack interrupted.

"Do ya wanna play cards or somethin' you've got WAY to much time on your hands." Ian nodded eagerlyJack came in like this every day the next week, wanting to hear more about Santa Fe. By the second day, though, he realized the other ones were fun, too. The ones about little fairy demons and space travelers and knights in armor. A couple other boys, like Dutchy and Snoddy, also came sometimes. Ian loved it. He got company, and he got to tell his stories to people who wanted to hear them. But still, by the end of the week, he desperately needed air and space to breath. He was getting huffy and frustrated, and it was becoming increasingly clear that he couldn't stay in much longer.

Wool looked down to see little Ian hopping up and down in place next to him, trying to get his attention. Wool picked the little boy up and swung him over to the top bunk nearest to his head, and in that position addressed the boy.

"What's the problem, mate?"

"I want to sell newspapers with you guys. I want to go out an' sing with you guys in the morning, and actually pay my money to stay here. It's cheatin', stayin' in here without paying for it. So when can I come?"

Wool gave an honest answer.

"When you can walk again."

"At this rate I'll never get there!"

Wool was pretty sure that was meant to be a hyperbole on Ian's part, but he still didn't like it.

"Can I at least come outside and just watch or somethin'?"

Wool bit his lip.

"I'll see what I can do, lad, but I promise nothing."

Ian beamed and jumped down from the upper bunk he was sitting on, and pumped Wools hand gratefully. Wool groaned. Now he really would have to do something, with the kid so hopeful. He walked downstairs to talk to Klopmann.

Wool walked over to the nuns the next morning with a very exited, very wriggly Ian on his shoulders. He wasn't going to carry him originally, but he had looked so pathetic hopping around like a headless chicken that he figured it would be better for everyone's pride if he did. The nuns handed out the coffee and old rolls, and went on with their usual blurb about shepherds and wayward sheep. While the rest of the boys ran off and towards the circulation office, Wool put Ian down and started talking to the friendliest looking of the nuns. He still though she looked as if she wanted to lock him in a room for the rest of his life and force-feed him host, but oh, well.

"So, Sister? This is my… little brother, here. He hurt himself, and he's pretty much better now, but he still ain't walkin' so great. Could you help us?"

The nun looked from the short, stocky, white-blond teenager to the lanky, freckled child beside him, and gave him a dubious sort of look.

"What do you want us to do, my child? Take him to the refuge?"

Ian started to tell the nun that Wool was most certainly not her child, but Wool slapped a hand over his mouth and shook his head.

"No, marm. Nothin' of the sort. I was just wondering if you had anything that could help him."

"Medicine doesn't heal things like that, child. If you hop in the back we can look at it."

It was better then nothing. Wool and his charge got in and rode back to the convent with the rest of the nuns.

Once there, a different nun rolled up the leg of Ian's knickers and examined it stonily, watching as Ian winced when she prodded him. She rolled them down and handed Wool a shirt and a pair of old boots.

"These are for the boy. You aren't to trade them for anything. This is for him, too."

She handed him a wooden crutch. Wool realized they were done there, and wordlessly handed the crutch to Ian, who took it, and used it to walk out, waving a cheerful goodbye to the nuns.

"They're nice ladies, Wool."

"Mm."

"Well? Ain't we gonna go catch up to the others?"

Wool looked down at the smiling little boy. He didn't like cripples. They were just wrong, and they always seemed to be either being all mopey and sorry for themselves, or glaring at you like it was all your fault.

"Wool? What's wrong? Are they all out of papers or somethin'?"

Wool looked sadly at the lad. He knew that this boy wasn't going to make it on these streets. He was too polite, and friendly towards people he had no cause to be friendly to. It meant he could be easily taken advantage of, and that by itself was enough to spell doom. On top of that, there was the physical side to things. This boy was small and skinny, with that dang leg. Wool knew that Ian couldn't hate whoever had done this to him, so Wool hated for him. For whoever had done this had set a nearly impossible road before a boy who had probably done nothing to deserve it.

"Hey, mister, don't do that to people!"

Wool turned to see Ian yelling at a man who appeared to have knocked over a crate of apples some women had been selling. He was laughing at the shock on her face as the crowd trampled her goods, and it was clearly rubbing a certain little crip the wrong way.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to sass your elders, boy?"

"Don't think so, and if she had, I think I'd sass good-for-nothin' apple-killers like you anyways!"

The man was clearly undeterred, and walked off with nothing but a rude hand gesture. Wool hurriedly picked up the salvageable fruit and pulled the kid down the street.

"Don't do that, mate. That guy was a lot bigger then you and probably drunk."

Ian looked down at the sidewalk.

"Sorry. Guess I shouldn't sass people like that."

Wool grinned and ruffled Ian's head.

"No. Sass anyone an' everyone who asks for it. Just take into consideration how badly they can hurt you, first. That way, you can be prepared to fight an' scream, an' make it hard for them."

"Oh. I understand."

Maybe Wool was wrong.

Wool decided to leave the kid with Jack and Racetrack. They made their way over to the boxing ring where Jack liked to sell, and Wool deposited him at the entrance to find the two boys. Ian made his way through the stands, wondering how exactly two small boys could ever be found in this mess. Eventually, he heard a thickly accented voice calling.

"Hey! Hey, Crutchy! Over here!"

Racetrack was waving and yelling from the back of the arena. Jack walked over, and Race whispered something to him. Jack grinned, and walked down to the youngest boy.

"Hey, Crutchy."

Hmm. Crutchy. He kinda liked it.

"Heya, Jack. How're ya doin'?"

"I'm good. Here, try to sell these. Start at the back. Sag and cough, ya know."

Jack ran off to the front, screaming something about a rocket to the moon.

By the next morning, everyone was calling him Crutchy, including the guy at the circulation office, and Klopmann, and the crazy lady who came looking for her lost son at the nun's cart every morning. It was funny at first, but he got used to it quickly. He sometimes sold with Jack, sometimes with a tiny boy named Boots he had grown to like who couldn't be more then five, and sometimes alone. He liked it fine no matter what, though. He was pretty good at it, and he could do it without help from anyone.

Chapter Two

A/N: I'm switching to Crutchy's point of view now. It's just much easier to write from. Sorry for any problems this might cause.

I was sittin' on this bench in central park, just mindin' me own business, an' hopin' that someone would come by. The sooner the better. It was December, an' the shop windows were all lit up cheery for Christmas. The lodging house was lit up pretty nice, too. I wanted so bad to get out of the snow, but I had ten papers left and nothing to buy papers with tomorrow if they didn't sell. I could hear one of the churches strike three. This was the worst time of day. Nobody still needed to know what was going on by now, and nobody was really walking around. Especially in this weather. It wasn't snowing very hard, but it was getting darker, and it looked as if it was gonna start comin' down for real soon.

An' it was cold. I hadn't been able ta feel my feet for a while, and I hadn't been able ta move my fingers for longer then that. My jacket was frosted over in the front, and my hair was frozen in curls. I heard someone comin'. I held my papes ta me chest an' started yellin'. Me mouth didn't seem ta want to do what I told it.

"Papers! Papers!" was the only thing I could say clear enough, so I did. The couple that'd just come down the path glared at me. They were all wrapped up in fur an' scarves. I stopped yelling.

"Get up, boy," said the young man. I grabbed my crutch and hopped up, sorta worried I'd be frozen ta the metal of the bench. The woman sat daintily down, after her little beau wiped off the seat for her. I stood there, waitin' for them to look up again.

"Would ya like a paper? It's only a penny, ya knows. An', there's prob'ly someone else ya know what wants news, right?" The man looked annoyed.

"All I'm sayin', is, ya know, you could get a bunch, an' give 'em ta people. I'm sure they'd like it!" I smiled real wide and waited for a response. The guy stood up an' grabbed my crutch. I was a little surprised, but havin' snow over the tops a' your boots actually helps ya balance. I waited ta see if he was going ta say anything. He leaned it against a tree, an' turned ta me again.

"Boy, hasn't your mother ever told you not to lie? How old are you?"

"I don't think so, no, sir. An' nine." I always forget ta lie about me age. People usually think I am, though. I'm tall for myself, but slight. Jack says it makes me look older. Anyhow, the guy was smilin' now, in the way people smile when they're going to say somethin' mean but want to look nice as they say it.


End file.
